Pancakes
by The Purple Maid
Summary: Dean got up early the next morning, so that he could make pancakes. One-shot. End of season 5.


**Quick one-shot to get me back into the habit of publishing things. I need to write more. Please try enjoy.**

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Dean got up early the next morning, so that he could make pancakes.

The smell of batter bubbling in the skillet would have normally been more than enough to drag anyone out of bed, especially a twelve year old kid, but no footsteps came down the empty stairs. Dean glanced up at the clock, timing just how long he could leave the pancakes in the skillet before flipping them, to make them as perfect as possible. He wondered why he didn't make pancakes at 6 in the morning more often. The quiet, cold air of Lisa Braedens kitchen made a change from the stuffy motel rooms he was used to. The silence was only cut by his breathing, and the items atop the stove that replaced the sound of what would normally be Sams heavier breaths as he slept. Dean tried not to think about it.

Instead, he thought about pancakes. Pancakes meant normality. Pancakes meant a house, and a family and a life away from the hunting. Finally away from the hunting. If he could make pancakes like this every few days for just a small portion of his life, then it meant he'd gotten out-at least for now.

He paused his train of thought, putting the first pancake on a plate and pouring in more batter. Pancakes mean normality, he told himself again. Pancakes mean a family. Pancakes mean happiness. Afterall, it was rare if ever that he had a kitchen-never mind the ingredients to make them. Yeah, Diner food was great, but Dean knew that nothing could compare to the taste of anything home-cooked like this.

The night before had gone exactly had Dean had expected-knocking at Lisas door in the middle of the darkness, cheeks still stained with tears, she'd invited him in and they'd talked. They drank and they talked; small talk was cut, and after almost all the hardships had been dealt with Lisa only had one question to ask. "What about Sam?" A replies words were never actually spoken "Sam's in hell." didn't once come out of Deans mouth. He explained the story, and in the end Lisa got the general message, but Dean wasn't ready to say it just yet. He wasn't ready to admit to himself that Sam was gone, not out loud. After all, he'd already come to Lisas, come back to her and Ben and knew that now it was for good. There was no leaving this time. Sam was gone, and deep down he knew it. If Sam was still alive right now, Dean would not be stood in Lisas kitchen at 6am, making pancakes.

Flipping the next one out of the pan, he grabbed the maple syrup and went to sit down. It had been way too long since he'd done this, at least in his opinion. Years, infact...

 _The heat of bobbys kitchen made his bones fill with warmth. After the atmospheric chill of all the old motels and rooms he'd been staying in, it was a nice change.. Sam stood by his side, almost bouncing with excitement, pleading to let him be in charge of the skillet this time._

 _"Not yet, Sammy. C'mon, you got to stir it"_

 _"But Deeeeean"_

 _"No dude, don't want you ruining them. This is all Bobbys got in the house. We screw this up we can't make any other"_

 _"What are you two idjits banging on about now?" Bobby grinned, walking into the kitchen and shaking his head._

 _"Dean won't let me help with the pancakes" Sam pouted, and his big brother nudged him in the rib with his elbow, causing Sam to grumble._

 _"C'mon boys, I'm hungry. How are you two supposed to work together if you can't even make pancakes right?"_

 _"Shut it, old man" Dean laughed. They knew bobby was joking, and it was nice to joke like this for once. Their dad would be back to drag them away on another hunt sooner or later-Or rather, drag Dean away leaving Sam alone until they got back. Being at Bobbies was an escape from all that, it gave them a chance to have a family-even if it wasn't exactly conventional._

Dean shook his head, snapping himself out of his memories and back to reality. The pancakes sat in front of him, untouched, going cold. It wasn't at all like Dean to leave his food, but he didn't feel like eating them. He wasn't hungry-the whole is his stomach was filled by a dark, lonely feeling. Regret? Pain? He didn't know. All he knew is that for the next few mornings, he'd get up bright and early-whether or not he'd slept-and make pancakes. He never ate them, never even touched them after making them, but still did it all the same. Eventually the early hours melted into later ones, and he's make some for Lisa and Ben too, except this time they'd get eaten. He'd watch them shovel food down themselves before school and work, and slowly began to pick at his own. Until the memories of Sam and Hell were as distant a memory as they could be, and the family and normally was all Dean had. The family, normality, job, life, pancakes, and-finally, just finally-a way out.

Dean got up early every morning, so that he could make pancakes.


End file.
